


Monsters are hot

by smuttyshitposting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Horror, Breathplay, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Multi, Necrophilia, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Public Sex, Selfcest (Kinda), Voyeurism, Worms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttyshitposting/pseuds/smuttyshitposting
Summary: A collection of short oneshots based on the important question “What would it be like to fuck each entity?”





	1. The Stranger: Does this count as selfcest?

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bunch of oneshots, one for each entity. Some will be spooky. Some will be dumb. Some may even be hot if you’re a dedicated enough monsterfucker. This is basically just shitposting I put too much effort into.  
Please do not take any advice about sex or relationships from banging sentient manifestations of fears.
> 
> We didn’t get much of Sasha. She just came and went.  
(Yes I stole that from Torchwood don’t @ me)

At first glance, Sasha thought she’d seen a monster. It was a second before she realised it was just a woman.

“Who are you?” she said.

The woman moved closer. She still seemed… indistinct, somehow, as if her body wasn’t quite finished yet. She reached out and gently took Sasha’s hand, skin paler than Sasha’s own.

She smiled with an easy confidence.

“Who am I? Oh that’s a silly question,” she said. “Who do you think I am?”

“I don’t…”

“My name’s Sasha,” said the woman who was definitely not Sasha.

Sasha opened her mouth to protest, but then something in her brain clicked. No, she was right, she was Sasha. She wasn’t sure why she’d forgotten her other self, but that was definitely her.

Still, something felt wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on what. It was like looking at a portrait with her head on its side; she could still identify all the features, still know what it depicted, but it just wasn’t how it was meant to be seen.

“You’re me,” Sasha said, trying out the words.

“I’m you,” the other Sasha said.

Her smile widened, and she leant in closer. Their lips met, and Sasha felt herself fall back against the wall, instantly overwhelmed.

Hands that were hers and yet so unlike hers ghosted down her sides. Sasha’s eyes widened.

They were still in the Archives! This was a bad place for, well, any of this, to say nothing of being a terrible time. Still, she felt a hand effortlessly part her hips.

“It’s ok,” the other her said softly. “You wouldn’t do anything to yourself you don’t want, would you? This is just masturbation.”

“This is just…” Sasha murmured.

She felt two fingers curl, and gasped.

“Though masturbating at work?” said the other her. “Only a bad girl would do that. Is that the kind of person we are?”

Sasha moaned. The other Sasha smiled, and ran her fingers in insistent circles until Sasha felt like she was on the verge of screaming.

“Say my name,” the other Sasha said, as her fingers kept moving. “I want to hear it.”

“Sasha!” Sasha yelled immediately. It took nothing at all for her to push up against the delving fingers, eager. “Sasha, please!”

“Good,” the other Sasha said. “Now say your name.”

“I… do I have a name?”

“Afraid not,” Sasha said. She leant in again, kissed her, and the nameless woman came apart under her.


	2. The Buried: Is this what people mean by choking kink?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything that gets called Choke is something you just know is kinky.

The dirt surrounded her. She’d deluded herself into thinking it couldn’t get worse, a moment before it did; it drew tighter around her, forced its way into her mouth, until all she could breathe was soil.

Her lungs screamed and she thought she’d die. She didn’t.

The Buried. Choke. That damned coffin.

It packed more tightly around her, the sheer pressure of it unbelievable. The idea that the dirt was somehow alive, that it was choosing to push down on her, choosing to crush her, seemed like such an obvious conclusion, but something in her rebelled at that.

No, that would be too easy. Imagining how much earth must be above her to cause this much pressure though…

Still it closed in around her. She thought she had no space left, and suddenly she had even less.

Daisy choked on the soil, felt small shards tear tiny holes in her top as she squirmed, and felt it close in all the more when she lost the room to squirm.

It slid under her top. At first that seemed no more noteworthy than how it had gone in her mouth, it wasn’t like inappropriate touching was at the top of her list of concerns. All it meant was even less space around her, not even the thin layer of her top between her and the choking force.

Dirt wormed its way into her shoes, her socks, and then ultimately up her trouser legs in an effort to find more places to be.

And then Daisy was left truly buried, soil pressing in against every inch of her skin. It felt like she was at the centre of the Earth. Nothing but endless pressure, all around her.

She still couldn’t breath, still couldn’t gasp for air or yell for help. The most she could manage was a muffled moan as she longed to relieve the pressure in her lungs.

And then the dirt found more places to slide inside, and she moaned for a wholly different reason.

It found anywhere it could to press against. It filled her, and she couldn’t arch her back or cry out, she could just stay at the mercy of the crushing force.

It wasn’t normal dirt, she’d worked that out a while ago. Even if it only acted to push down on her, there was something different about it, and the way it felt inside her was proof of that. It wasn’t coarse, it wasn’t grainy. It had only felt like soil towards the start. Now, after so much pressure, it was like she was fully encased in rock, not even a grain allowed to move.

And it was smooth rock that filled her, and seemed to be all that could move as it shifted inside her body. There was nothing save the earth all around her.

Nothing except the insistent pressure, places she had been touched before and places she’d never been touched before all at once rubbed against.

Daisy came, there, beneath all creation in an unmoving, muffled scream, and listening to the countless muffled moans from all around her.

A moment before she adjusted to the new feeling, as her body began to accommodate the intrusions, the pressure lessened. The earth withdrew.

It pulled out of her, and she coughed up a few handfuls of earth, and could only lay there. There was still a painful force pinning her in place, but she could wiggle her fingers now, stretch her legs…

And wait for it all to start again. Daisy closed her eyes, gasping for more breath as the last of the aftershocks still shivered through her.

She’d been in the coffin for one day. 


	3. The End: Death Comes (and so does Georgie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think there’s an unaired episode where Jon asks for a statement and just gets a long detailed account of someone banging a giant eyeball? I really hope so.  
Alternate title: Georgie takes flirting with death too literally

“The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.”

A second before and Georgie had been terrified. She wasn’t sure where that feeling had gone. Instead she was left with the glassy eyed woman staring at her, something she knew should have unsettled her, and yet now there was nothing.

That was all she’d told Jon. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept the rest from him, whether it was self-consciousness or just a need to keep things private. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure _how_ she’d managed to keep it from him with how easily everything else had fallen from her lips.

She hadn’t mentioned everything else the woman had said.

She hadn’t mentioned the woman leaning closer, inhaling deeply in the only breathe Georgie had seen her take, to look Georgie right in the eyes.

“You might be scared,” she said, with a voice that sent chills down Georgie’s spine, “Or you might not be. You might know that the risk is there, or you might be oblivious.”

For a moment, Georgie forgot all else. She didn’t know where she was. She barely knew who she was; she didn’t remember the corpses all around her, she just knew that someone was in front of her, and that someone was staring at her with a terrifyingly piercing gaze.

How the dead woman was moving seemed less of a concern, somehow, than how it was she was standing. For a moment she seemed to tower over Georgie.

“When do you feel safest?” the woman said. Georgie didn’t have to answer for the woman to continue. “A lover’s embrace? But even there is not safe.”

The world shifted, and Georgie felt the cold around her. It took a second for her to realise it wasn’t just air.

She had cold arms encircling her, almost tenderly, and cold lips against the side of her neck. She stretched her head unconsciously and felt gentle hands touch her.

It was as hard to describe as everything else had been. The woman holding her was impossible, and had been terrifying not long ago, but now… she wasn’t afraid, but she also wasn’t deluded enough to think the parody of safety was actually safe.

Though maybe that was the point.

She hadn’t spooned with a corpse before, especially not with a corpse pressing kisses to her neck, gently running a hand under her shirt and over her breasts, and with her other hand sliding down.

Georgie remembered her own arms then. She grabbed at the woman’s lower wrist, though in the fog that had filled her mind she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to pull her hand away or hold it in place.

Either way, nothing stopped the feeling of stiff fingers parting her lower lips, a thumb moving in a bizarrely delicate circle around her clit.

She couldn’t help a shiver, couldn’t help but gasp.

“This might be when you die,” the woman whispered.

Her hand stayed where it was. Even her words couldn’t dampen the need beginning to spread through Georgie’s shaking body.

A cool hand rested still on her chest, though it moved after a handful of eerie, ecstasy-filled minutes.

“Do you feel safe?” the woman said. Her other hand begin to wrap around Georgie’s throat; Georgie’s eyes widened, just as the other hand brought her to the brink…

And then all was still. All was silent, save for the sound of Georgie’s unfulfilled panting, the woman behind her falling slack.

No, she hadn’t told Jon that part of the story.

Nor had she told Jon how, in thoughtless desperation at being left like that, she’d rolled over and clamped the now-unmoving woman’s cold hand between slick thighs and rode her to completion at least three times before finally, finally, succumbing.

Maybe some things were better left out of statements.


	4. The Flesh: *Raymond Holt Voice* BONE?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as close to heterosexuality as you’re going to see in this collection and it’s purely to raise one Very Important Issue about a certain Flesh avatar.

Helen was curious about a lot of things. Having such a rigid body was still unusual to her, made all the more so with the being she kept inside herself.

The part of her that was Helen walked through the part of her that was the corridors. She could hear its groaning from there, even through the doors.

The Boneturner fascinated her; even in a prison of flesh, it wove such strange shapes from itself. Merely two arms and two legs was so constricting, so he wove a fractal of flesh and bone and meat, bursting at the seams with all his body held within. She knew the feeling.

She walked through the door. At the sight of her, he lunged with an incoherent grunt; she stepped back through her door and he crashed into a solid wall.

She entered the room from the far side.

“Boneturner?” she said.

He turned around so slowly, his massive bulk seeming like it shouldn’t support his weight. Bone cracked and twisted as he looked at her.

“You’re why I’m here,” he said in his low, distorted rumble of a voice.

“You interest me,” Helen said.

“I do?” he rumbled.

“Your shape,” Helen said. “It’s better than many of those I’ve seen. How many branching paths do you have?”

Jared paused. His elongated brow furrowed, wrinkle after wrinkle piling up. It took him a moment to decipher Helen’s words.

“As many as I wanted,” he said. “I’m making the perfect body, me. Hands and arms and feet and hearts and lungs and stomachs and… other things.”

For a second, the monstrosity seemed almost shy.

Other? Helen paused, and was about to speak when the part of her that was _more_ Helen identified embarrassment, and identified the kind of thing that tended to cause embarrassment.

She turned her gaze down, intrigued in a way that it took her a moment to place.

Bodies were so strange. Taken ones most of all; the more she thought of things the way Helen would, the more she remembered it had been a very long time since she’d taken part in certain activities.

Maybe she could ask Melanie. She had the feeling Melanie would say yes. But while she was here…

“Can I see them?” Helen said.

Jared raised four of his eyebrows.

“You want to…” he croaked.

“I enjoy your shape,” she said. “I imagine neither of us has had the opportunity to be with someone else for a while.”

The Boneturner seemed self-conscious at that too. Still, he assented.

His clothes were ill-fitting as it was, multiple torn and stitched-together garments wrapping around him more like a blanket than any real item of clothing. He unwound it, arms beneath what passed for a shirt helping to push it up over his head and functionless neck-stumps.

She saw the first of his dicks there, only a little below his neck. She peered at it curiously, unsure of her body’s reaction.

Others came into sight, lower down his chest and stomach and even between his legs, as he discarded his last garment. Helen drew closer.

“All of them,” she said.

She didn’t need to say any more than that. She leaned in, stripping herself as she got closer to him, and positioned her entrance to take in one of his lower sets.

He slid inside her with astonishing ease; he leant forwards, tremendous mass bending over her so she leant back and he could move with all the more ease. Another cock grew hard just beneath it, the superheated flesh bumping into her ass with each thrust.

He was so warm. His blood boiled beneath his skin, his touch impossible to ignore, every inch of her inner walls reacting.

And that was just the first. She lost sight of his face amidst the hulking flesh, and didn’t care; more of the warm rods pressed against her, and she reached for those she could. She clasped a hand around one, stroking gently, then roughly in response to the rumble that made every inch of him shudder.

He slid one between her breasts, and one of his hands guided her other to yet another dick. When two pressed against her cheeks, still hot to the touch, she opened her mouth gratefully.

He was inside her, while she was encircled in his many arms, while he was trapped within her hallways.

The Boneturner thrust with more cocks than she could count, and Helen pushed up against him, feeling every inch of so many parts of him fully inside her. He grunted; the sound resounded all around.

He came, partially. Warmth flooded her aching core and she shifted angles, the softening dick replaced by another that had been as yet untouched, rigid and hard as it took the first’s place inside her. Twisted bodies pressed against each other. 

Jared grunted again, the bestial noise tempered with relief. It was a sensation Helen knew too well.

The corridors around them trembled when she at last came. Lights flickered and pathways altered themselves, doorways cracking open for long seconds before remembering to close again.

And she waited beneath the mass of flesh, her moans muffled by the one she’d taken into her mouth. That one, too, came. Jared groaned again.

But, unsurprisingly, it was replaced. She knew it would be a while before the Boneturner’s efforts at a perfect body would be fully sated.

Which was perfect for her. She felt the same trembling bliss begin to slowly build inside her again, and renewed her effort matching his thrusts with her own.

There were so many more things to try.


	5. The Lonely: Martin Got-Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologise for that title but I'm not sorry.

They stood on the deserted street. It took focus for Martin to identify it as London; the city just wasn’t the same without the constant hubbub, the cars as good as parked on the roads…

But it was London, from a certain point of view. He’d been thinking of it as Lonedon.

“No one’s here?” Martin said.

There was a light fog filling the streets; he couldn’t see as far as he could on even the most congested days, the mist thicker than the usual haze of exhaust.

It swallowed up the sound of his words. Peter heard him anyway.

“Well, yes and no,” Peter said. “Anyone ever sent to the Lonely is here, but the world is so very big. You could, in theory, encounter someone. But you won’t.”

Martin looked around the desolate streets and shivered.

“So why did you bring me here?” he said.

“Practise,” Peter said. “You’re still clinging onto the bonds you’ve formed. That’s going to get in the way, you know.”

“So I’m… here?” Martin said.

“For a while,” Peter said. “Not forever. Maybe a few hours, maybe a day, long enough for you to adjust. When you realise you don’t have to get what you need from those you know, we’ll be done.”

“But…” Martin began, but Peter had faded away, swallowed by the fog.

He didn’t know where to go at first. He walked the streets, unable to suppress a shudder at the eerie quiet, almost lost. Thankfully the layout was familiar enough to him, even if there were a few oddities.

And then he found himself return inexorably to the Magnus Institute. He wasn’t sure what drew him there.

Through the familiar doors, down the familiar halls… It was maybe the strangest place to find so utterly empty. It wasn’t like it was always packed, but every time he was there (and he was there a lot), there should have at least been the sound of voices.

The Archives too was empty.

It was as he passed the room Jon used to record that he felt something stir. Martin glanced down at his body, almost self-conscious despite the fact the fog was his only witness.

He glanced over his shoulder despite himself.

He was alone. No surprise there. But it was this place… He’d had too many thoughts in this place, personal thoughts he probably shouldn’t dwell on.

He was alone.

Martin swallowed. Unnecessarily, he closed the door behind him and walked inside. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining Jon, imagining the room as it normally looked.

He grew harder. Nervously at first, he undid his trousers and slid them as far as his knees.

It still felt weird to be doing this here of all places. Maybe that was the point though, embracing the advantages of the Lonely. While Peter existed though, maybe it was better to be subtle.

A gasp escaped his lips as he wrapped his hand around his dick. _That_ felt good, way more than normal. He stroked, and felt the mist swell around him.

It pressed against it. Breathless for a moment, he stopped; the mist began to recede, and the sensation suddenly became less intense. Right. Martin inhaled.

Lonely. He had to be by himself, there wasn’t going to be anything else to do this for him, that was the _point_. Besides, it wasn’t like he needed much help.

Martin started stroking again, and it wasn’t long before he grunted and came, a jet of white shooting up and spoiling the otherwise pristine table. It looked almost wrong, seeing it there.

Wrong, but somehow enjoyable. Awkwardly, Martin pulled his trousers back up, coughing.

Somehow he knew he’d enjoy being in that room again.


	6. The Hunt: (insert punny title here)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fears are awesome datemates, like the Spiral who’s going to be weird but weird in an awesome way, and the Stranger who’ll fuck you up in the best ways and suddenly you’re attracted to clowns and I mean what? Then there’s the Web who’s hot af except for one tiny problem, that problem being spiders, but, like you’re not going to say no. Then there’s the Slaughter who’s just that asshole ex, the Dark is that goth girl we all crushed on, the Buried’s the one who’s into some kinky shit… Meanwhile, the Hunt is just that girlfriend who is awesome and you love her and you are definitely never going to introduce her to your parents because she would say “Your daughter calls me daddy too,” instead of ‘hello.’

Daisy looked at her with eyes that burned. It was one of the rare times they were at the station together, and Basira could feel Daisy’s eyes on the back of her head every second.

There were rumours of a case that’d need to be left to sectioned officers, it probably wasn’t a surprise Daisy had been called in. They’d just have to see how it developed.

Basira tried very hard to focus on the desk in front of her. There was information to collate, consider, work on…

“Storage room. Upstairs. Ten minutes.”

Daisy breezed past her deck, whispering without stopping, and Basira instantly lost her focus. She watched Daisy leave, moving with the same easy confidence as ever as though she hadn’t said anything.

It was hard to say if it was a recent thing, or if Basira was just getting closer to her so she was more likely to show other sides of herself. She’d noticed that Daisy had certain… moods. Especially when she was busy with a case, chasing someone down, she’d get much more… eager wasn’t the right word, but it was certainly the closest.

Not that it had ever gone as far as propositioning her at the station before.

Basira tidied her desk and refused to make eye contact with anyone. She kept one eye on the clock; nine minutes later she stood up. She know the room Daisy meant.

It was small, cramped, several shelves full of spare keyboards and mice and folders and binders… and then just enough space in the middle of all that for someone to stand in there and look around. Barely enough room for two people.

Daisy was waiting for her. Glancing around the corridor quickly, making sure no one was looking, Basira quickly stepped inside.

“Hi,” Basira said. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Daisy said.

She seemed almost feverish; before Basira could ask if she was ok, Daisy leant in and kissed her fiercely, a hint of teeth already. She pulled back, Basira’s lower lip caught for a second on them.

And suddenly Daisy seemed fine, smirking across at her.

“We can’t be too noisy here,” Basira said.

“That’s going to be all on you,” Daisy said. “I felt like treating you today.”

“Lucky me,” Basira said. She chuckled, and Daisy took a step forwards; Basira’s back bumped into a shelf.

Technically she was taller than Daisy, she knew that. Somehow it was easy to forget when Daisy looked at her like that.

One hand slipped down between Basira’s legs, wrist holding her waistband open, too rushed to bother undressing. She found Basira wet, anticipation of the past ten minutes proving a fine bit of teasing.

Daisy pressed her other hand to Basira’s mouth, leaning close enough that Basira could feel her rapid breathing.

“Remember,” Daisy said. “Not a sound. You’re mine. _This_ is mine.”

Basira gave a muffled moan, nodding behind Daisy’s hand. Two fingers, then three, curled inside her.

She liked it when Daisy got like this, though now it seemed more intense than most times; need burned in her eyes, and she looked at Basira like she was all that mattered in the world, raw _want_ resplendent in her gaze.

And Basira felt her body react with a surge of heat and a tremble in her legs. She moaned, reaching the brink-

Daisy stopped. Basira gave a frustrated moan, squirming and grinding against the fingers still inside her, until Daisy pressed a little harder on her mouth.

“Shh,” Daisy murmured. “Don’t rush it. The chase is the fun part.”

Basira stared back, mute and aching, and sighing in relief after what seemed like forever as Daisy curled her fingers anew.

Her thumb traced circles around Basira’s clit, while the rest seemed more intent on making sure Basira never forgot they were there. She arched against Daisy.

And Daisy stopped again for long, painful seconds. Her smile widened.

“Please,” Basira tried to say through Daisy’s hand.

Daisy didn’t relent. She brought Basira right to the brink, to the point at which it felt like the merest breath might grant her release, only to stop and leave her trembling and panting, a few moments before she started again. Kept her there.

“How much do you want it?” Daisy said.

Basira was almost impressed at how soft Daisy’s voice still was. Daisy’s breath had still quickened, her gaze betraying her own arousal, but she had far more control than the moaning Basira.

Basira said something muffled during a torturous break. Daisy chuckled, and pressed harder with her thumb.

It was hard to think about anything else except need. She’d lost track of how long she’d been in the storage room, Daisy pressed close against her, agonising ecstasy coursing through her.

“Should I move my hand away?” Daisy said, voice low. “You can cum, but only if you scream loud enough for the whole building to here. Do you want it that badly?”

“Mmf!” Basira said. Cheeks hot at the thought, she nodded anyway, staring at Daisy.

“Maybe that’s not enough,” Daisy said. “Should I kick the door open? You’ll be even easier to hear then. Maybe someone will walk past, see you like that, see you’re _mine_, that I have you. How much do you want me to let you cum?”

Another indistinct moan. Daisy seemed pleased enough by it; Basira just looked at her with undisguised, aching need.

Daisy stopped again, fingers stationary inside Basira, slick and shivering. Slowly, Daisy moved her other hand down from Basira’s mouth to lean in and kiss her breathless lips.

“Do you know what I really want to do?” Daisy whispered. “I want to take you out there. I want to bend you over your desk and make you scream, I want to claim you where they all can see so you and they will never be able to forget that you’re mine. I’d let you cum then. More than once. I’d pin you down until you couldn’t scream any more, then make you cum again for good measure. Do you want that?”

Something in Daisy’s eyes surged, some primal need that sent a shiver through Basira. She wasn’t entirely sure this was just idle dirty talk any more.

Then again, when Daisy’s fingers started to move again, she wasn’t sure she cared. Basira’s lips parted, and it took everything she had not to moan loud enough to draw attention.

“Please!” she gasped. “Anything. I want to…”

“Really?” Daisy said. The hand that had been on Basira’s mouth was on her throat now. “I mean it. I _want_ that, I want you like that, so much. We could do it right now, go out there…”

Basira closed her eyes, arching up into Daisy’s touch. She wasn’t sure if it was a joke, she was rather aware Daisy had a seriously possessive side to her sometimes, but right then she couldn’t think of anything better than screaming at Daisy’s hand. So what if everyone saw?

Daisy pulled away, leaving Basira unfulfilled.

It took a second for Basira to adjust to the lack of the hand inside her, and a second more for her to regain her balance, still slumped against the rattling shelves.

Daisy was at the door. She’d straightened her uniform as quickly as she could, quickly wiping her hand clean.

“D… Daisy,” Basira panted. She smiled back.

“Wanting is so much more fun than getting,” Daisy said. She seemed somehow… relaxed, now. “You can chase something forever, and always enjoy the chase.”

Basira bit her lip. She was halfway to sliding her own hand between her legs before Daisy lunged, grabbing her wrists. Suddenly her eyes were ablaze again.

“_Mine_,” she said. “I’ll be watching. You can go back to your desk. Wait until after your shift, I’ll find you then. Want it until then. Enjoy the wanting.”

“You… you could have warned me,” Basira said, still breathless.

“I could have,” Daisy said.

She moved a step back, her expression becoming more relaxed, a delighted glint in her eye. She watched and left the supply room with Basira, her girlfriend’s legs still unsteady, both eagerly awaiting the promise of what the evening would bring.


	7. The Corruption: Oh, Worm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I got this image in my head then so will you.

They were all over her body. People never thought about what that meant. They saw them on her face, or in her arms, and never wanted to dwell.

She stood in the road outside the home of an irritant, a lone lamppost flickering over her head. Quietly, half a dozen tiny, wriggling worms pushed their way out of the holes in her body. Two slid back inside, one down a hole in her wrist and one into the side of her stomach, while the other four landed on the street and began to make their way over to the home.

Tormenting people could be so much fun, especially people from the Eye’s Institute.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, swaying in gentle ecstasy.

The hive didn’t just spread to the visible parts of her body. Though she preferred wearing a tank top to give all the friends living in her arms their freedom, anyone who peered beneath would see all the same tiny black holes, glimpses of white squirming beneath.

Sometimes pushing out, if she asked nicely. Whether that was to go after someone, or for more personal reasons.

It squirmed out of a hole near the top of her breast, and squirmed down, the lithe, ever-shifting body brushing past her nipple. Jane Prentiss closed her eyes again, sighing at the familiar sensation.

There was something to be said for hundreds of bodies squirming against any part of her she wanted, whenever she wanted.

It was a casual thing for her these days. Why would it not be? Every waking second she could spend basking in the bliss her worms brought to her, while she waited for the rest of her worms to finish their task.

A narrow, wriggling body brushed past her clit before sliding back to its home inside her. She bit into a pockmarked lip, reaching out to support her weight on the lamppost as she shivered.

She didn’t bleed any more. That confused her, somehow. She remembered bleeding. Before, she knew that having this many holes in her would manage at least a drop of blood; maybe she just didn’t have any blood now. Maybe what ran in her veins was just squirming silver.

A hoarse moan escaped her lips then as dozens kept sliding about, over each other and over her.

She was used to how it felt when she came by now. Her friends brought her to such bliss at a stray thought, and she only had to stand there.

She inhaled deeply, and after a few minutes asked them nicely to start again.


	8. The Dark: There's Something in the Dark (and it's horny)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Manuela reaches Peak Goth.

She closed her eyes. She didn’t need to, but it just felt proper somehow. Even with her eyes wide open though, she could see nothing; even with how used she was to darkness, sight here was denied to her.

The endless expanse of dark stretched out around her. The Black Sun was almost complete; she had time to wait, time to drift into the dark.

What would the point be in opening her eyes? She wouldn’t even pretend that sight was what mattered.

Foolish people were scared of the dark. Maybe it was the truth of it that scared them, that the darkness was the natural state rather than the light that spawned them, or maybe it was just a more practical fear. Who knew what lurked in the dark?

Something brushed her ankle.

Even Manuela shivered at that. She knew of the beings in shadow, the true creatures that lived in any patch of darkness. Sometimes when she slept, she could feel them watching her even on Earth.

Saying she knew them would be inaccurate. You couldn’t know the darkness, you couldn’t see it, you just knew it was there. She knew of the things that lurked in every shadow and she loved them.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she pulled her top off over her head, already kicking her pants off and letting them float away in the zero gravity.

She drifted up, nude, into the shadow, and felt the darkness wrap around her.

“Is the Black Sun all you wanted it to be?” she said. Her voice was swallowed up by the black around her. “Are you pleased?”

The shadow ran down her back. She could never identify its touch, whether hand or carapace or air or water, she couldn’t even say for sure if it was hot or cold. All she could ever say for certain about the darkness was that she felt it, and that she adored it.

She basked as the shadows drew closer around her, something wrapping around each of her thighs and parting them.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Manuela said.

Her words didn’t carry that time either. There was no sound, just the roaring hollowness of void and the muffled sound of her heart as it pounded in her chair, her breathing growing faster and faster.

She felt the touch of one of the things that lived in the darkness as it slid inside her, and arched into it, expression rapt with devotion. Meanwhile, something else brushed her back.

She couldn’t say if they were all one vast, unthinkable being or if there were multiple beings that lived in the darkness. Perhaps that which greeted her in each shadow was always the same, or perhaps she was giving her body to different beings each time she offered herself like this.

She couldn’t even say for sure that it was just a single thing sliding into her core. Each touch felt different.

Tendrils wound around her thighs to grant entry, something soft curled inside her, something airy ran over her lips and snaked through each fold and encircled her clit, while something more solid traced a path down her spine.

And something entirely new, and larger, descended upon her chest; each point at which it touched her might have been a pinprick or tender caress, it was hard to tell anything, all over her chest and up to her throat.

She opened her mouth and was greeted with what might have been a kiss, and she felt the shadows consume her utterly.

Manuela’s scream as she came was utterly silent. She lingered, body wracked with convulsion after convulsion, nameless creatures surrounding her. She came again in the same silence.

There was no identifying precisely what any touch was, but she felt it as they withdrew. She faltered, her throat dry, her body sore and aching and so very satisfied as she drifted.

“Amen,” she whispered.

Manuela loved the darkness, and loved it well.


	9. The Spiral: Mindfuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shippy. I don’t know how this collection of all things ended up shippy but here we are.   
The Spiral is the sexiest fear. Fight me.

Helen took Melanie’s hand and led her deeper into the maze of hallways.

Helen had such strange hands. They never seemed to be the same, each time Melanie looked at them. Sometimes the fingers were long and pointed, sometimes they seemed normal but were just… off, like there were too many bones packed in there.

“So where are we going?” Melanie said.

“Somewhere deep,” Helen said. “Where the door was meant to open. It’s somewhere I can be more… me.”

“Alright…” Melanie said slowly. “I’ll assume that makes sense. All these corridors look the same.”

“I can always find it,” Helen said. “Keep hold of my hand. Even I’d be lost here if we stepped off the path.”

“You?” Melanie said. “Isn’t this your place?”

“Do you know each bend and curve of your intestines?” Helen said.

Melanie paused.

“I know you’re new to the whole booty call thing, but that doesn’t really help set the mood,” Melanie said.

“Oh. I’m… sorry?” Helen said.

Before Melanie could speak, Helen guided them through another door and came to a stop. She seemed pleased.

And when she turned, she was resplendent. At first glance nothing was different about her, but the more Melanie focused on any one aspect, the more detail there seemed to be.

Her eyes glinted in the unexplained light. Melanie could have drowned in the inky black of her pupils, or been captivated by her irises; they weren’t just a flat colour, there was texture to them, depth. Tiny spirals etched out, infinitely small, making up her eyes.

“We’re here,” Helen said.

“We’re… where?” Melanie said.

“Where I’m closest to me,” Helen said.

Melanie looked at her, confused. Then again confusion was probably to be expected around this particular fear.

The corridor didn’t seem any different. Rows and rows of doors, on and on down the slightly slanted passage. All that stood out, and it only stood out because of how many identical doors they’d passed already, was a single padlock over one door.

Every other door seemed open. Melanie couldn’t help but shudder.

And then Helen was in front of her and leant closer.

When Helen kissed her, Melanie felt her lips in more than just the one place. The more she focused, the more there seemed to be, a fractal of sensation.

She had the gentle pressure against her mouth, and an instant later an identical kiss against the curve of her throat, then the other side of her throat, then gently trailing down the small of her back…

When she opened her eyes – when had she closed them? – it was just Helen standing in front of her. Just the one. Just one pair of lips, curled in a smile and apparently uncomfortable that she’d made such an expression.

“What was… wow,” Melanie said. “Never kissed a fractal before.”

“Do you want to, again?” Helen said.

“_Please_,” Melanie said.

She resolved to keep her eyes open that time.

Helen kissed her, winding her hands in Melanie’s hair and gently sliding her tongue passed Melanie’s lips, and in an instant she tessellated. She rippled, each identical, each the same person in the same place but somehow spreading infinitely.

She felt the same hands that wound in her hair slide down her back, she felt them cup her ass to pull her closer, she felt them slide up her hips, she felt them caress her cheeks, she felt them slide over her breasts… all at once.

It hurt to look at; Melanie closed her eyes, and the sensation didn’t diminish. She _felt_ Helen.

It wasn’t just a simple touch either. If she tried to focus on a single hand, say, the one sliding up her leg, she realised that it wasn’t just a single hand. There were others, maybe smaller or maybe overlapping, all part of the same motion.

The fact she was still dressed seemed almost incidental. The sensations didn’t seem to care.

And then she felt Helen’s kiss spread. The tongue that teased Melanie’s own also sketched out shapes on her neck, or circled her nipple through the hand that was already there, or kissed a path teasingly down…

It took embarrassingly little time for Melanie to come from the feeling of what might have been millions of tongues against her core.

She screamed and almost collapsed, breathless, supported entirely by now just two arms under her own. Helen looked down at her; she seemed please.

“Wha- ha… tha…” Melanie managed. She gasped again, legs shaking.

It was a minute before she continued.

“That was… wow,” she said. “Might’ve been a bit useless for a moment there.”

Helen smirked. She helped Melanie regain her balance, never looking away, her eyes burning with something.

“If you could think anything coherent, I’m not doing my job right,” Helen said.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say I was _that_ overwhelmed,” Melanie said.

“Really?” Helen raised her eyebrows.

“Nope.”

“That sounds like it’s a challenge,” Helen said.

Melanie smiled, still shaking. “Maybe it is.”


	10. The Vast: Vast Dick Energy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could do an interesting story about wide open spaces, probably involving a Leitner, and find some inventive way to use that, or I could make a dick joke. See if you can guess what I went for.

“I tried to be polite,” Mike said. “Now, I’m going to want something from you.”

“What?” Jon said.

Mike undid his trousers. Jon blinked.

“I… I don’t…” Jon began. “This isn’t something I…”

“Did I say this was for your benefit?” Mike said.

Mike pushed them down, and what bobbed up in its place made Jon do a double take. Mike chuckled.

“Avatars of the Vast do get some perks,” he said. “It isn’t just the sky that’s big. Now, you, over here.”

Cautiously, Jon got to his feet. He took a step closer before losing his balance; he couldn’t say why, but suddenly he was stumbling onto his knees and… that was right in front of his face.

“Open up,” Mike said.

“Can we talk about- mmf!” Jon began.

Mike firmly pressed a thumb to Jon’s chin to keep his mouth open, aimed, and moved forwards. His cock slipped partway past Jon’s lips, hitting the back of his throat in seconds.

Jon hesitated. As far as meetings with avatars of other fears went, this wasn’t going the way he’d expected.

“That’s it,” Mike said, with a patience that seemed out of place given his manner seconds before. “You know what to do. I _tried_ to be polite, but if this is what it takes to keep you from compelling, then so be it.”

Jon didn’t have the best view, but he could see there was an awful lot of Mike’s dick left between his lips and its base. He started to move tentatively, back and forth, tongue running in circles.

Mike ran a hand down to the back of his head. Jon’s eyes widened as he felt him push a little, sliding a centimetre more down his throat. And a centimetre after that…

Jon said something muffled; Mike bit his lip at the vibration that caused, and moved back slightly. He never moved away enough to let Jon get a coherent word out around the gargantuan member.

“Try harder now,” Mike said softly. “I’m going to want more than just your mouth. It’ll be easier for you if it’s all wet.”

“Mmf mff!” Jon said.

There wasn’t much to do except try and relax his throat, the vast dick managing to slide a little further in with each thrust, and each time eliciting a pleased exhale from Mike.

Minutes later, and Jon had just gotten used to the feel of it in his throat when Mike pushed him back.

“I think that’s enough of that,” Mike said. “Turn around.”

“Can we talk about this?” Jon said.

“You’ve done enough talking,” Mike said.

Jon felt himself be bent over the table, a single firm hand on the back of his neck and another pushing his trousers down. Mike’s vast cock was poised at the entrance to his ass in seconds.

Jon gritted his teeth. Mike pushed forwards; Jon gasped.

It seemed impossible at first. He felt himself squeeze around the intrusion, all too tight, and yet he still seemed to be able to take it. Mike slid inside with a painful slowness, forward inch by inch.

Jon’s hands flailed for a moment; he gripped the edges of the table, knuckles white, and gasped as it felt like he reached his limit. Mike leant down.

“Halfway,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“There’s… there’s more?” Jon gasped.

Mike chuckled, and somehow managed to keep sliding more and more of his dick inside. Jon could barely believe still more was fitting inside him.

He’d seen that thing. There was no way…

With a groan, Mike’s hips hit Jon’s ass with a sudden sense of finality. His own erection pressed against the table, Jon rocked back, disbelieving.

“That was good,” Mike said. “It’s been a while since anyone’s been able to take it all. Now…”

Jon groaned, voice incoherent, as Mike began to move. Each second he felt like he could take its sheer size, something more happened to remind him of just how big it was.

As soon as he could manage with it in his throat, it went in his ass; as soon as he got used to that feeling, Mike began to thrust, low groans punctuating each. Jon wasn’t sure which of them those sounds came from.

There was a crackle that ran down Jon’s thighs, like static, and he smelled ozone at the feeling of something warm and wet shooting inside him. Mike groaned again, leaning forwards over Jon, not pulling back.

And that was the moment Daisy chose to walk in.


	11. The Desolation: Too Hot, Hot Damn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god we have canon technically-monsterfucking. Apparently waxplay is a thing so we all know what Jude and Agnes were into.

When Agnes looked at her, Jude felt it deep in her soul. It wasn’t hard to see why the others called her a goddess; she was, in every way.

They sat on opposite sides of Agnes’ rather lavish bed, Agnes at the pillow and Jude at the foot. Agnes had insisted on it.

Jude wiped the sweat from her brow. It was always hot when she was with the Lightless Flame.

“It’s not fair,” Jude said. “Everyone else gets to be close to you.”

“They’ve given up their flesh,” Agnes said. “And even then, only the purest of faith survive contact with me. I… wouldn’t want to lose you like that.”

“Still,” Jude said.

She glowered, not at Agnes, just on principle. Then she shuffled closer, beginning by pulling her top off. Agnes swallowed, too caught off guard to move back.

“I don’t think it’s any of them you want to touch,” Jude said. “And I _know_ they wouldn’t touch you in the best way.”

“Jude…”

“If I’m off-base, tell me,” Jude said. She paused for only a moment to make eye contact, before pushing down her jeans and boyshorts. “But I figure even a goddess has to have needs, and I want to be that for you.”

“Even if it kills you?” Agnes said.

“Can’t think of any way I’d rather go out,” Jude said.

Agnes faltered. Something in her gaze was so unlike the destructive force Jude knew she was.

Agnes shifted back, though not far. She fixed Jude with a firm stare.

“Stay very still,” Agnes said. “Legs apart. I don’t want to touch you more than I have to. A hand would definitely kill you. A finger… if you stay still, I think you’re… faithful enough.”

“In love enough,” Jude said.

“You’re certain?” Agnes said. “You’ll burn.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jude said.

Her grin only widened as Agnes leaned closer. The only reluctance on the face of the auburn-haired goddess was fear of hurting Jude; as she took in the sight of her sort-of girlfriend’s nude form though, need entered her eyes.

Agnes didn’t seem to know where to look. She watched Jude’s eyes, then down to see where her slender finger was heading, then back to Jude’s expression.

That lone finger slid inside, and Jude hissed at the sweet, sweet agony.

She wasn’t sure what spots Agnes touched. There was no sorting through the overload of sensation, no finding one place that felt it more than any other, just a white-hot digit curling inside her.

“Jude?” Agnes said.

“More,” Jude gasped.

It took everything she had not to buck into Agnes’ hand; she knew Agnes was right about that at least, if she touched too much of her there’d be no coming back from the burns.

It almost felt worth it, if there’d be just a little more…

If she focused past it, she saw Agnes staring at her, fixated on each flicker of her expression. Hungry.

Jude didn’t know what the opposite of an orgasm was. It had all the intensity, but there was nothing as base as pleasure involved. She screamed and screamed and felt it consume her in delicious raw feeling.

When she came back to herself, she was lying back on her bed. She whimpered as she sat up, scorched hips rubbing against each other.

Agnes was licking her finger, moist with what might have been wetness or melted flesh. As soon as she saw Jude stir, she smiled.

“Wow,” Jude said.

“I’m glad you survived,” Agnes said.

“Me too,” Jude said. She inhaled deeply, throat sore. “So when I go all waxy, you’ll let me return the favour, right?”


	12. The Slaughter: Slaughter? I `ardly know `er!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Magnus Institute cafeteria. Scene 1. Int.   
“I banged an embodiment of a primordial fear of humanity.”  
“Bitch me too the fuck?”

Maybe it had been a mistake. Well, of course it had been a mistake Melanie reflected bitterly, going to India in search of wartime ghosts was the definition of a dumb idea.

She’d snuck close to the train car, trying to keep below the windows, hearing vague, indistinct sounds from inside. That had maybe been her first mistake, expecting the haunting to look through windows to know she was there.

When she’d peered up over the frame, eyes had been waiting to stare right back at her. When she’d tried to back away, one of the ‘ghosts’ had been standing behind her.

She didn’t recognise the uniform. Whatever it was, she was pretty sure it wasn’t from any war in India’s past. Elsewhere, though…

“Hey, hey, watch it!” she said, trying, knowing it was probably in vain.

For a ghost, it had a strong grip; she tried to wrench her wrist away, struggling with increasing desperation as it pulled her to the door of the train car.

At first, the inside looked almost like a medical bay. There was a bed with high railings around it on one side, and a sturdy door opposite it. Melanie just hadn’t seen any of that through the window.

And there _definitely_ hadn’t been the sound of the train’s engine running. She stumbled forwards as she was released, turning as if to fight-

There were cuffs on the bed, and they lunged like they were alive. Melanie yelped, staggering back, pulled and cuffed to the bed before she could take even a step away. Yep, this was definitely feeling like an awful idea.

She rattled the cuffs, eyes widening as she felt the same restraints grab hold of her ankles too, pulling her legs apart.

“What-” Melanie began.

The first of the ghosts was on top of her in seconds. Clothes didn’t seem to matter much, though she couldn’t say for sure if it had simply phased through them, or if they’d been cut away expertly; there was no getting around the fact that the spirits here all seemed to be armed soldiers.

She barely made out any features of the ghost atop her, only feeling something as it slid inside her. She yelled, and cuffs jangled, but she managed nothing else.

And then it pulled away in a mere minute. She felt warmth where it had been, heard a spectral sigh, as it turned to walk away.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Let me go and see how-”

There was another ghost in the room, quite suddenly. As the first walked away, apparently done, the second approached. And then the third. And then…

The slid between her legs, one after another, ghosts in gear she vaguely recognised as military, though it seemed to be a mishmash of different countries and even eras. Stiff fabric brushed against her chest, and she realised that at some point her clothes definitely had been torn away.

Someone moved over her, and then she felt someone lean down, felt them straddle her face as someone’s slit ground against her mouth.

She yelled something muffled, and the vibrations that caused made fingertips dig into the back of her head.

Suddenly she was very conscious of the sound of the train engine, that impossible engine. It was regular, thrumming, each second. Beat after beat and chug after chug, like music.

Unconsciously, her hips started moving back against the myriad of intruders to the same rhythm.

This wasn’t for her pleasure, that was all too clear. This wasn’t to make her cum, yet she felt it building inside her anyway, felt her body react to the friction and thrusting and the almost hypnotic sound of the train that shouldn’t be running.

The person over her face came, sated by the circles Melanie hadn’t realised she’d been sketching wither her tongue. The next person to move over her slid something past her lips.

The thrusting sent shivers through her whole body. Back and forth, back and forth between them…

When she came, it was long after losing count of the ghosts that had come into and gone out of that little room. She shuddered, and gasped, each whimper muffled, and none of it slowing them down.

She came several more times before the trickle of people slowed. Somewhere along the line she’d stopped fighting, started consciously echoing the rhythm of the music. It seemed to make the ghosts finish faster.

The handcuffs clicked open. Breathless, Melanie fell from the bed, awkwardly stumbling to her feet.

The room was empty. It looked as though it always had been empty, except…

The door was open. The bulky door that was far grander than how it looked on the outside, that should have just led outside because there definitely hadn’t been a carriage there, opened up to a musty, large train carriage.

She saw red sky outside the windows of the impossible carriage, saw smoke rising up, and heard the wail of what sounded so much like an air raid siren. And in the carriage were all the ghosts, the soldiers, the uniforms marching up and down, down to the far end of the carriage and apparently into another that wasn’t there.

War. It had been clear they were wartime ghosts, and there were so many stories about much more than just killing in war, but…

There were other beds in the carriage. Men and women alike, restrained, all swaying unconsciously to the now-louder beat of the engine-music.

Melanie didn’t realise she’d moved closer. She caught herself, swallowed.

“Ma’am.” It was the first time she’d heard any of the ghosts speak; suddenly he was in front of the doorway, tattered revolutionary garb covering a bleeding body. He didn’t seem to notice that he was injured. “How will you be serving?”

Serving? Melanie still struggled to stay on her feet, legs week.

He offered a rifle to her curiously, before looking past her to see the bed. It didn’t seem to matter to him which she picked.

So that was it? Service? Fighting in that war of ghosts, or staying cuffed to a bed for the soldiers?

She took another step forward, the music filling her head. It had felt good; she remembered after she’d started pushing back against the thrusts to the rhythm of the music, she remembered how intense that had been. Every nerve in her body alight, a rush that was because of the ghostly train, she knew, but a rush nonetheless.

And-

No. No way. Melanie snapped herself out of it with force of will alone, and took a step back.

The ‘ghost’s’ expression darkened. She forced herself away.

“Deserter,” he said.

She ran. She barely felt the bullet as it grazed her leg, and kept running until the music had quietened enough that it felt safe for her to collapse.

Yeah, that had been a terrible idea all around. She made a firm promise to herself to not make a statement about that particular encounter when she made it home.

Or if she did, try to make something up at least. She swallowed, the ache between her legs not wholly unpleasant, the tingle of the engine still at the back of her mind.


	13. The Web: Mr Spider wants more. Ms Spider can Get It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Magnus Archives, podcast: the Web is one of the most insidious fears. It has ruined lives and traumatised so many more people.   
Lesbian brain: heh heh spider lady hot

Basira groaned, and struggled against the bindings that kept her arms above her head. Unnaturally thick webbing kept her trapped as Annabelle looked at her curiously.

“What did you think would happen?” Annabelle said.

The woman stood up and neared Basira. A slender finger tilted Basira’s head up, meeting her eyes with ease. She wasn’t crowing; she was all too casual about this.

“I wanted to keep an eye on you,” Basira said. “Recon. I wasn’t-”

“_You_ wanted?” Annabelle said. “Are you sure?”

Basira felt her heart beat faster. She wasn’t sure why, beyond the fact it was something about Annabelle.

The way she looked at her, the easy sense of control, the tall woman having no difficulty in restraining her with the webs… Basira swallowed.

“How would you know?” Annabelle said softly. “You think you came here by your will, what if I wanted you? It would be so easy, gently coax you to be alone, be here… Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.”

“I…”

The Web could be subtle. She knew that. Just like she knew, she’d been certain, this was her plan. Even if had gone poorly and she’d been found, it had been her plan.

Annabelle traced a finger down Basira’s cheek, and Basira felt her face warm.

This wasn’t exactly a new situation for her, Basira reflected. That wasn’t helping matters. She’d been kind-of sort-of dating Daisy when she’d been filled with the Hunt, she was _very_ familiar with being trussed up with a woman idly toying with her.

It was just normally in a rather different context. Basira couldn’t help a shiver, her body reacting despite herself.

“You don’t seem afraid,” Annabelle said. “No… ah, you feel like _that_ do you? Or, no, perhaps that’s what I wanted you for. Why else would I invite you here?”

“That’s not…” Basira began. Her voice was hoarse; she swallowed again. “No.”

How did she know? Maybe she was in her head-

Or maybe she was just a spooky avatar of a primal fear dedicated to manipulation, reading emotions couldn’t be that hard. Who knew what she’d be capable of?

Annabelle’s hand traced down Basira’s throat, stopping at the neck of her top. She met Basira’s eyes.

“Do you want me to?” Annabelle said.

“Are you asking?” Basira shot back.

“What do you take me for? Of course I’m asking,” Annabelle said. Her lips curled. “Unless you need me to change your answers. Oh, I could make you beg for me to do such wicked things to you if I had to. It would be so easy. Have you plead for debasement after debasement, and have you thank me for every one. Or you could say no. Nothing’s stopping you, is there?”

Her last question was almost playful.

Basira didn’t want to say no. That might have been the scariest part. She watched a spindly-legged spider crawl out of the scar on the side of Annabelle’s head, before scooting down her back, and still couldn’t think of anything but the pounding in her chest and the sudden heat between her legs.

All the while, Annabelle just watched her knowingly.

“Do it,” Basira said eventually, a tremor that was equal parts fear and excitement in her voice.

Annabelle smiled. Her finger skated down and neatly tore through Basira’s top with means Basira couldn’t see, baring the dark skin of her breasts, before going down further.

Basira didn’t even pull on the web binding her hands as Annabelle did away with her clothes, ruining them as much as removing, until Basira was exposed before her.

And then Annabelle leaned in.

“No,” she said.

Basira’s eyes widened.

Her hands ran up Basira’s bare arms, leaning in close, almost taunting her with the possibility of a kiss, though all she did was tug on the webbing. Basira felt the restraints around her arms slacken; she didn’t move them for a moment, struck dumb and silently watching Annabelle walk over to a chair.

“What…” Basira said, breathless.

“That would be far too easy,” Annabelle said. “I don’t want to take what I want from you; that’s so very crude. I want you to show me what it is _you_ want.”

“I… what?” Basira said.

Her arms came down slowly while she still panted.

It was maybe the worst thing Annabelle could have done. At least tied up, she knew which of them was in control. Now…

Her heart pounded in her chest and she couldn’t help the rush of heat she felt just looking at Annabelle, and for as good as that fault she couldn’t honestly say for sure where that came from. She just knew she was suddenly very interested in how Annabelle tasted.

She approached, and tried to ignore the pleased look on Annabelle’s face.

It felt like her walking. She didn’t know if that even meant anything. She just knew how natural it felt to get onto her knees and part Annabelle’s legs with her hands.

She leant in and closed her eyes at her first taste of the avatar. She seemed… remarkably normal, all things considered. A pleasant tang, a sudden warmth, and most familiar of all, the feeling of two hands suddenly winding in her hair.

Basira’s eyes widened when she felt the second pair of hands, two more arms making extra sure she couldn’t pull back by pressing on the back of her neck. Not that she needed any incentive to keep tasting, her tongue quickly finding the spots that elicited breathless gasps from Annabelle and skating past them again and again.

When she felt the third and final pair of hands, fingertips digging into her bare back and leaving rewarding scratches up her shoulder blades, Basira spared one of her own hands to slide between her own legs.

She’d been burning with need since being freed. It didn’t take many fingers before she was moaning into Annabelle’s core. Six arms held her close, dug in as she brought Annabelle to the brink, and two legs opened to allow her head aspect.

And even then, she couldn’t say for sure why she was doing it. How much of this was need, and how much was gossamer-thin strands working her like a puppet, tiny threads of web on each join to govern each flick of her tongue, each curl of her fingers inside herself.

Was she touching herself, or was this as good as Annabelle being inside her?

Worst of all, did she even care at this point?

They came in eerie unison, Basira’s moans reaching their loudest pitch and the sound sending vibrations through Annabelle that made her react in kind, her many limbs holding Basira in the best place to ride it out.

Until, eventually, she let go.

When Basira looked up, she only saw the two arms. Annabelle looked pleased.

“There are spare clothes in the room on the right,” Annabelle said. “Your size. Unless you feel like more?”

Basira looked down at herself, for a moment self-conscious, remembering just how thoroughly Annabelle had stripped her. She tried very hard not to think about how prepared Annabelle had been.

“Do I have a choice?” Basira said.

Annabelle’s smile widened, almost predatory, and Basira knew that manipulation or no there was only one decision she wanted to make.


	14. The Beholding: Voyeur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last one! I hope you’ve enjoyed this collection. If so, why on earth did you? If not, why did you read this far?

Sometimes images came to him unbidden. It had started a while ago, but it hadn’t been as intense until he’d been wondering about how to help Daisy out from the Buried.

After that, all that crossed his mind was the sensation of being utterly filled with dirt, choking as he came all at once, again and again and again… Before he’d snapped back to reality and stared at the impassive box.

It wasn’t until his own foray into it that he’d realised how accurate the stray thought had been.

He tried not to pry, he really did. People deserved a personal life; Daisy hadn’t mentioned the awkward situation she’d found him in after his encounter with Mike Crew.

And then it had been Melanie. That really hadn’t been intentional; he’d idly wondered about any other effects the Slaughter might have had on her, and suddenly he found out that the short snippet of a tale she’d told about her trip to India had failed to mention sating the hungers of the Slaughter’s soldiers and almost succumbing to the siren call of doing so for so much longer.

That discovery had been a problem. Melanie didn’t seem to want to talk about it, which he understood, but part of him was still curious. The doorway to a place that seemed connected to the Slaughter, the discovery of more of what its avatars did when there were fewer world-spanning conflicts…

He wanted to ask questions. He just didn’t want to pry any more than these powers meant he absolutely had to.

Still, he hoped Melanie was ok.

And then he knew how it felt to be enveloped in a fractal, one pair of lips feeling like hundreds, one finger stroking down the side of his face translating to the sensation of strokes in so many more places.

Ok. Melanie had definitely moved on at least. Jon inhaled heavily, walking awkwardly to his chair and sitting down, erection straining against his trousers.

No. Those thoughts were private.

It wasn’t attraction, at least not directly. He’d never felt about anyone that way. Romantic crushes were one thing, and limited in of themselves, but sex had never been something he was interested in. It wasn’t _his_ interests that he was feeling though.

Apparently the Eye had decided to grant him far too many intimate bits of knowledge. Maybe it was a reward, maybe it was his own brain misfiring without any kind of control.

He tried to regain his focus. Helen, at least, was good. It was good Melanie had someone.

Even if that someone was an aspect of the Spiral, ever-twisting corridors that devoured her prey, and whoever else she felt like trapping in there.

Jon gasped at the sudden knowledge of all the other body parts Jared Hopworth had multiples of. He felt them, hot, ghost-sensations brushing his body.

He panted, all the harder now; his hands gripped the base of his chair tightly.

They weren’t his experiences, they weren’t for him, but they kept dripping into his head. Flashes of sound, feeling, sight… He’d idly remembered Daisy, then Melanie, and now the images wouldn’t stop coming.

He throbbed, and try to focus. Just because sex wasn’t for him didn’t mean he begrudged other people it, but he’d much prefer their need not spill over into his head. Georgie had always understood-

Georgie, arching her back and clamping her thighs around a dead woman’s hand as she made herself come, screaming in endless relief and not wanting to stop-

Jon gasped again, wiping his brow. She hadn’t wanted him to know that.

Stop. He tried to ignore the sudden, painful hardness at his crotch. God, what was that cliché? Try avoid thinking of sex by thinking about gross things. He worked at the Magnus Institute, he had a plentiful supply of those thoughts.

Eerie grinning students holding beating, bleeding hearts in their hands. Humans melted drop by drop into screaming candles. Flesh hives, who…

Jane Prentiss, grinning and sadistic and in perpetual orgasm, worms making their homes in places he really didn’t want to think about.

Jon shuddered, suddenly thoroughly grossed out and turned on anew, Jane’s own sensations transferring to him. Wriggling, squirming under his flesh and something bringing him to the brink.

He looked down at his lap disbelievingly. Apparently even feeling disgusted wasn’t doing much to dim it. Damn it. This had only started because he’d idly remembered Daisy.

And then he saw Daisy from an entirely different point of view. She pinned Basira to the wall, and a dozen different similar occurrences echoed around it. In some she brought handcuffs.

Jon screwed his eyes shut, and it did nothing to make the images go away. If anything it made the ripples of Basira’s ancient need fill him all the more intensely.

“Stop it,” he muttered.

And he felt Basira again. That time it wasn’t Daisy; he knew the feeling of eight limbs enveloping him, web winding tight, and the dual certainties of being powerless and not caring.

He managed to pull himself away from those thoughts.

Things were so complicated now, he had to admit. Especially with everyone in the Archives was apparently screwing some entity or other. He wasn’t sure when everything had spiralled out of control.

After Tim, maybe. Definitely after Sasha.

After she’d felt the touch of her replacement, losing her identity in a haze of ecstasy that Jon suddenly knew all too much about. He gasped again, trying very hard not to take matters into his own hands.

He throbbed, as if he’d been touched by anything.

Ok, Sasha… that wasn’t so bad. Some twisted part of him had to acknowledge that not dwelling on people he saw every day would make this substantially less awkward.

He thought of not knowing, and his mind went to darkness, and suddenly he too knew what lurked in the shadows. He felt Manuela’s adoration mixed with his own trepidation, and more than that felt a shadow of her ecstasy.

He felt closer. Jon swallowed nervously.

It was intense. And, he supposed, if he had to see anyone like that, it was better to not be the people he spent every day around. Even if the damage there was kind of done.

So long as his mind didn’t wander. He’d seen enough awful people out there; no one wanted to be up close and personal with something like the Corruption or Desolation when…

Jon groaned, then screamed as he felt all Jude felt, liquid agony gloried in. He shivered, tearing himself desperately away from those thoughts. As turned on as he was from the echoes of her feeling, his mind still recoiled from the memory.

And then he thought of Martin.

He wasn’t sure what made Martin cross his mind, just that he wanted this over with, and that somehow that made him think of Martin. He thought of Martin in that very room, spending himself over that desk.

He thought of Martin thinking of him, and he came, both hands still gripping his chair. He gasped, arched up then slumped back down.

And finally his mind was clear.

Jon panted, a dozen different images still faintly at the back of his mind, but Martin sticking in his mind more than the rest of them. It was a long few minutes before he could focus again.

He could always feel the Eye staring at him when he worked here. Some days, though, the staring felt considerably more smug than usual.


End file.
